Evermore
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Short multi-chapter, post-TFP. Inspired by Beauty and the Beast and the song "Evermore," written by Alan Menken and Tim Rice. After the events of Sherrinford, Sherlock learns that a phone call that lasted less than three minutes may have potentially devastating consequences. Can the terrible damage be fixed in time, or will he face losing the one that matters the most?
1. Chapter 1

**_I was the one who had it all..._**

 ** _I was the master of my fate..._**

 _ **I never needed anybody in my life...**_

 _ **I learned the truth too late.**_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were transported back to London from Musgrave first by police helicopter and then by police car. Both – one filthy and soaked wrapped in a grey blanket, one white as a hospital bed sheet with bloodied knuckles – were completely silent the entire way to the Watson home.

Since 221B was still in shambles, Sherlock obviously needed a place to stay for the night. Mrs. Hudson's ground floor flat had, thankfully, survived intact with a few things broken here and there. She was staying at the Watson house with Rosie while the Holmes and Watson trio had been away. She was awake and waiting for them in the sitting room, despite the fact that it was nearly two o'clock in the morning.

"Greg called and told me you were on your way back," she said in hushed tones after they had come inside as quietly as they could. "But I couldn't sleep anyway. I've had this horrible, uneasy feeling ever since the explosion. Oh, look at you two!" Her eyes had adjusted to them in the minimal lighting, and her hands covered her heart. "Oh, my boys, what have you been through?"

"It's a very long story, Mrs. Hudson, and one that I do not want to tell right now," said John as softly as her. Sherlock remained silent as he shed his coat and scarf. "Right now, all I want to do is have a hot shower and then hold my baby girl." He turned to Sherlock. "Since Mrs. H has the guest room, are you good with the sofa?"

Sherlock nodded silently, and John didn't push him to talk; he knew better than that, especially after what they'd been through. He turned back to Mrs. Hudson. "How's Rosie? I hope she hasn't been giving you a hard time."

"Oh, no, she's been an angel," cooed Mrs. Hudson. "Especially after her Auntie Molly popped around for a while."

Both Sherlock and John looked abruptly at Mrs. Hudson with wide eyes. It was Sherlock who spoke first, barely above a whisper. "Molly was here?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "This evening. She came over to have dinner with us, and she kindly put Rosie to bed. Even though the little one tried to be stubborn, she was no match for the lullabies that Molly sang. Such a pretty voice she has…" A sad look came over Mrs. Hudson's face. "Poor thing…I've never seen her look so sad when I saw her on the doorstep after ringing the bell. She only said she had a horrible day at work, and considering the job she does, I thought it best not to ask for details." She sighed before patting them both on the cheek. "Well, I'll turn in. See you both in the morning."

After Mrs. Hudson had gone upstairs to the guest room, Sherlock and John stood still for a few moments, absorbing what Mrs. Hudson had told them. It confirmed in their minds what they knew the aftermath of a certain phone call would be for Molly:

She was alive. And completely heartbroken.

Sherlock then, without a word, walked to the sofa, laid down on it, and curled up with his back to the room and to John. The doctor gave a somber sigh, muttered a 'goodnight' and went upstairs to have a warm but quick shower and then bring Rosie to his room for the night.

Because, after everything he had been through that day, no way was he not keeping his daughter close tonight.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, sunlight was streaming through the sitting room windows – late morning, then. He had slept in. He hoped that John and Rosie had done the same.

As he sat up on the sofa, the sound of soft murmurs and coos floated in from the kitchen, which was the next room over. It sounded like John feeding Rosie her breakfast. Looking by the front door at the coat rack, he saw that Mrs. Hudson's was gone. She was an early riser, and had most likely left to start cleaning up her own flat, 221A. He would definitely go there later today, and fully assess the damage of 221B. John didn't have to work until the next day, so he could come with him; Mrs. Hudson would watch Rosie while they took full stock and inventory of all that needed to be done.

 _That's not the only thing that you need to do today,_ a small voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like Mary spoke. _You heard Mrs. Hudson the other day. You broke her heart, and she needs to know the truth._

Not _quite_ ready to respond to that voice yet, Sherlock got up and walked to the bathroom to take care of a few things (a spare toothbrush was kept here for him). Once he was finished, he walked into the kitchen. John was lifting Rosie from her highchair, peppering her face with kisses that elicited giggles and flailing limbs. Not even Sherlock could resist the corners of his lips turning up ever so slightly at the sight. And when Rosie spotted him first and gave him a big smile, he couldn't help smiling back.

John, following his daughter's gaze, gave a half-smile of his own. "Morning, Sherlock," he said, walking over to him and holding out Rosie for him to take. "Here, mate. You could use some quality time with her while I change, get the papers and yesterday's mail too."

"Gladly," said Sherlock, accepting his happily babbling, six-month-old goddaughter. "We'll be in the sitting room."

Walking into the sitting room, Sherlock wasn't up for any active play with the baby that morning (for understandable reasons) so he sat down on the sofa with Rosie on his lap. Looking around him, he saw a few picture books by the sofa in a messy, haphazard pile. "Well, Rosamund Mary, we may as well look at one of these," he sighed. "Oh, I cannot wait for the day I can go through a chemistry book with you…"

Rosie seemed perfectly content with this as she tried to chew on her entire right fist (she must still be teething then).

So, Sherlock leaned down and looked over the selection of picture books, looking for the one that he would be the least annoyed by. Suddenly, one image caught his eyes: a young woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and wearing a yellow dress. His own mind conjured a similar memory, of another young woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and wearing a yellow dress…at a wedding just over a year ago…

His hand moving with a will of its own, it reached down and picked up the book that this image belonged to. Holding it in front of Rosie – and taking in the entire picture on the front cover – he softly read the fitting title aloud.

" _Beauty and the Beast…_ well, let's give this a try, Rosie…"

The little one offered no objection, merely snuggling more securely in her godfather's hold and continuing to chew on her own fingers.

" _Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young prince lived in a shining castle. Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind…"_

A heavy weight seemed to fall into the pit of his chest, and the weight only increased as he continued to softly read the story. As the story continued, certain phrases from the story were more brutal than others:

" _If he could learn to love another, and earn her love in return by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time."_

" _Though Belle was quite beautiful, the people of the small village viewed her as strange an unusual. She showed more interest in books, learning, and what lay beyond the village than she did about fine clothes, gossip, and finding a man to marry."_

" _As the Beast led Belle through the castle, she never dreamed that a home could be so dark and cold. When the Beast looked over his shoulder at the girl, silent tears were running down her cheeks."_

" _After the remaining wolves had run away, the Beast was wounded with bites and scratches. After looking at Belle, he collapsed into the snow. Belle, quite frightened from the whole ordeal, turned back to her horse. After all, now she could go home to her father. She was no longer in the castle with this terrifying Beast…but this terrifying Beast had just saved her life, when he'd had no reason to at all. Now he was hurt from doing that, and he needed help. She could not just leave him there to freeze, even die. So, Belle walked back to the Beast, kneeled down beside him and covered him with her cloak."_

" _She glanced this way, I thought I saw, and when we touched, she didn't shudder at my paw. No, it can't be…I'll just ignore…but then, she's never looked at me that way before…"_

" _The mirror showed that Belle's father was sick, perhaps dying. Hating to see the distress on her face, the Beast turned to look at the enchanted rose. It had wilted greatly, and only a few petals remained; there was very little time left to break the curse, and he knew now that Belle was the only one who could help him do that. But the Beast could not keep her with him if it would only cause her pain."_

" _As Belle rode away from the castle and into the forest to find her father, the Beast watched from his West Wing tower. And as she faded from view, he let out a mighty roar of heartbreak to the sky."_

" _The Beast climbed over the rooftops as fast as he could towards his tower balcony, where Belle stood with her hand outstretched. Finally reaching her, he reached out his paw and gently took her tiny hand in his. 'Belle, you came back!' he said with joy; his other paw cradled her face as she smiled. But Gaston had followed him, and before either knew what was happening, he had stabbed the Beast a fatal blow with his knife."_

" _The rain continued to fall on the Beast's now lifeless body as Belle still begged him to stay with her. And as she whispered, 'I love you,' through her tears, the last petal of the enchanted rose fell…"_

"Sherlock."

The consulting detective was brought out of the quite engrossing story, looking up and giving a very stupid-sounding "Huh?" Rosie, who'd been quite happy as a clam on her godfather's lap listening to his voice, let out a little whimper because he had stopped.

"What is it, John?" said Sherlock, having to clear his throat before speaking (it felt quite clogged for some reason). Then he took a closer look at John, and his worry grew. John stood before him with a very somber, almost grave, expression on his face; he was holding out an opened envelope that contained a folded piece of paper.

"I found this in the mailbox. You'd better read it."

As Sherlock carefully took the folded paper from John, the doctor took Rosie from Sherlock's lap. "Come here, my love," he softly cooed, and cuddled Rosie to his chest. "Let's give your godfather some privacy."

John was almost out of the room when Sherlock's voice stopped him: "But John…it's addressed to you, not me."

The good doctor gave a deep, sad sigh, reading all of the even sadder subtext in Sherlock's almost desperate tone of voice. He looked over his shoulder at his best friend; the man looked terrified. But John wouldn't relent.

" _Read it._ "

With that, he and Rosie left the room. Sherlock looked down at the envelope and felt a cold, creeping dread fill his chest.

John's name was written on the envelope.

In Molly's handwriting.

* * *

 **A/N:** _The lyrics at the beginning come from the song, which was written for the live-action of Disney's "Beauty and the Beast," which I tell pieces of in this chapter; all credit for that goes to Disney and the creative team behind this amazing story._


	2. Chapter 2

_**I'll never shake away the pain…**_

 _ **I close my eyes but she's still there…**_

 _ **I let her steal into my melancholy heart…**_

 _ **It's more than I can bear.**_

* * *

 _John,_

 _I will be away from London for the next two months or so. I won't be taking my mobile with me, but I will check my e-mail regularly. Please send me updates/pictures/videos of Rosie while I'm away._

 _Please forgive me for not saying goodbye in person, but I'm not ready to face answering the question of "why" that you have every right to ask. If you really want to know, ask your best mate about our latest phone conversation and his most recent "experiment."_

 _When I come back, I sincerely hope that I will be a better and stronger woman than I have let myself become. Only then will I be the godmother that Rosie deserves._

 _Please don't worry about me, John. I need to do this. For Rosie, for Mary, and most of all for myself._

 _Molly_

* * *

Minutes later found Sherlock walking as fast as he could down the residential streets of London towards the one residence. Once every word of that letter had been burned into his memory, it had dropped from his hands as he rushed out the door. He'd barely remembered to grab his coat and scarf on the way out. Damnit, he'd forgotten to say anything to John or say goodbye to Rosie before he'd left…

"Then be damn sure to answer your phone when he calls later."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and turned his head to the right so quickly that his neck cricked. Mary Watson stood beside him, looking at him with a deadly serious look on her face.

Oh, Sherlock knew _exactly_ what was going on. He'd watched John go through the same thing after her death: conjuring her in his mind's eye and placing her in reality as if nothing had ever happened.

 _But so much had happened, and she was still so very much needed…_

Mary – the Mary his subconscious mind had conjured, anyway – gave him a sad, compassionate smile. "I know, Sherlock, I know. But it is what it is. Now, let's keep walking before you attract some unwanted stares."

Automatically, Sherlock obeyed and resumed his punishing pace. Mary remained in the far corner of his sight, easily walking beside him. Sherlock did not engage in conversation with her, because he knew that would attract unwanted stares and attention to himself. The sight of a man talking to himself on the street was never a good sight. No, best to get to Molly's flat as quickly as possible without causing any delays.

"You know you could get there a lot quicker if you hailed a cab," said Mary cheerfully, still keeping pace beside him. "Then again, I imagine that you need to exert all of that manly turmoil raging inside you." She ended her statement with a snort.

Sherlock couldn't resist rolling his eyes and quickening his pace ever so slightly at that.

"Don't blame me, love! I'm you, this is coming out of _your_ mind, so I'm just telling you what you already think and know in the guise of your deceased friend."

" _I know,_ " Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

"Watch out!"

So distracted was he by his thoughts, Sherlock nearly walked into a busy street where he didn't have the right-of-way. But Mary's loud warning caused him to come to a halt just in time. Refusing to look around him – and ignoring the angry honks and curses from the crossing cars – Sherlock stepped back onto the sidewalk to wait for the signal to cross.

"Buy a flower, dearie?"

That didn't sound like Mary (though she was quite talented at creating different voices and accents). So, Sherlock turned his head towards the parallel street. On the side of the sidewalk was a small flower stand, run by a weathered old woman with a cringe-worthy smile, that looked to have been taken straight out of a Victorian painting. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock wouldn't have even acknowledged its presence and ignored it. But Mary stood beside the vendor with an encouraging nod, pointing to a particular flower on display.

When Sherlock saw what type of flower it was, his stomach felt heavy again. Pink roses…just like the enchanted rose in the storybook he'd been reading to Rosie…Well, he did have some spare change in his coat pockets…

Surprisingly, a single pink rose cost him only tuppence. "You look like you need one, dearie," was all the old vendor woman said as she'd handed him the rose.

"Oh, believe me, he's going to need a _lot_ more than that," said Mary matter-of-factly.

Sherlock couldn't help but shoot Mary a glare before nodding his thanks to the vendor woman and walking away (now that he had right-of-way at the crosswalk).

* * *

It certainly took longer to reach Molly's street than it would have had he taken a cab. But he hardly felt tired; he had done much longer and harder physical excursions on cases. Mary did not fade or go away, and she didn't speak again until they had reached Molly's street.

"You know she's most likely not there, Sherlock," she said as they both slowed their pace. "She probably left that note in the mailbox when she visited yesterday evening."

"But she didn't leave right after leaving Mrs. Hudson and Rosie," argued Sherlock. Molly's street was quite deserted (everybody was off at work or school by now). "Mrs. Hudson didn't mention Molly having any luggage or suitcases with her."

"And over twelve hours have passed since then, Sherlock. Plenty of time for her to get out and far away from London by now."

Sherlock's lips twisted into a tight, ugly shape, and he did not respond.

He came to a stop at the stairs leading down to the front door of Molly's basement flat. Sherlock had been following pure instinct in walking all the way to Molly's flat right after reading that letter. But now that he had arrived, his fear grew just as large as his determination.

If Molly was here, then Sherlock faced the monumental task of repairing their relationship to normal by explaining to her everything that had happened during and leading up to Sherrinford – things that he had not even begun to process himself yet.

If Molly was gone…then Sherlock would have to face a very terrible reality indeed: that Molly Hooper no longer wanted him in her life, to the point where she left without a goodbye.

"Come on, Sherlock," said Mary softly at his shoulder. "You know you have to. It's the least that she deserves."

Sherlock gulped, and walked down the steps towards her front door as though he were being led to his execution. With a trembling finger, he ran the bell and waited.

Minutes passed, and nothing. No movement and no noise came to him, even when he pressed his ear to the front door. Realizing that the terrible reality was becoming real, Sherlock put the pink rose stem sideways in his mouth so that he could have both hands free to pick her lock.

"You do realize that this makes you look like a desperate and insane love interest from a rom-com?" asked Mary dryly, even as she was keeping herself from laughing.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, his words muffled by the flower. "I need to see for myself."

Since this was far from the first time that Sherlock had picked the lock of Molly's front door, he was through it in less than twenty seconds. He took the flower out of his mouth and called out, "Molly?"

But again, there was no response of any kind. As he shut the door behind him (and Mary), he knew and felt that it was empty. Like a lost boy, Sherlock wandered around from the front hall to the sitting room, and then he finally turned towards her lovely little kitchen.

 _The scene of the crime._

"Oh, no, Sherlock," said Mary, who was already standing in the kitchen. More specifically, she stood in the exact spot that Molly had stood during that phone call. And she was pointing to the counter with an absolutely heartbroken look on her face.

His heart pounding, Sherlock walked to the kitchen, standing opposite Mary at the counter. He looked at what was resting on its top, and suddenly his breath froze in his chest.

There lay Molly's mobile phone – the screen of which was absolutely shattered.

The sight of that phone, the primary and last link of communication that Sherlock could always depend on with Molly, now broken and left behind…well, Sherlock felt a great affinity with that phone now. After dropping the pink rose beside the broken device, he gripped the edge of the kitchen counter as he leaned over it, trying desperately to catch his breath. His eyes burned so he shut them tightly, but all he could see was Molly's face as it had been when he'd watched her in this room, talking on this mobile: hurt, humiliated, and heartbroken.

"Easy, sweetheart, easy," Mary's voice sounded in his ear. "Calm yourself. Easy does it. She won't be gone forever, you know that. You read the letter: she'll come back for Rosie's sake. All hope isn't lost."

It took a while for her words to settle in Sherlock's mind, therefore allowing his breathing to become the normal, boring task that it was. With a shaking hand, he wiped his eyes (thank Christ no tears had fallen).

Just then, he heard the flat door opening and closing. Followed by a _very_ familiar set of footsteps to his ears.

His heart began to pound again, every instinct telling him that it could only be one person. Looking at Mary, she looked back at him with excited and encouraging eyes. "Don't worry," she whispered. "This isn't your imagination; I would know. This is real!"

Slowly, Sherlock turned on the spot to face the person who had just walked in.

His heart, which had been pounding like a drum, now dropped to the bottom of his stomach.

It was Molly…but it wasn't _his_ Molly.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Now I know she'll never leave me,**_

 _ **Even as she runs away:**_

 _ **She will still torment me,**_

 _ **Calm me, hurt me,**_

 _ **Move me, come what may.**_

 _ **Wasting in my lonely tower,**_

 _ **Waiting by an open door,**_

 _ **I'll fool myself she'll walk right in**_

 _ **And be with me for evermore…**_

* * *

Her hair had changed drastically. Though it remained chestnut brown in color, her hair had been cut into a bob-style that didn't quite brush her shoulders. This new hairstyle was in no way unflattering; on the contrary, it framed her elfin face and made her seem taller than she was. But it was not the hair that _his_ Molly had. _His_ Molly had long, thick tresses that she frequently wore in high ponytails, fishtail braids and pretty buns.

Her clothing style had also taken a, what would John call this, a one-eighty type of change. She wore black flats with black stocking that weren't the least bit transparent. She also wore a grey day dress made of a comfortable jersey fabric. This wasn't by any means an unflattering look for her; on the contrary, the cut of the dress was just right for her figure and the color brought out her natural coloring. But it was not the way that _his_ Molly dressed. _His_ Molly dressed in jumpers and trousers that were always slightly too big for her, and that _always_ had at least a splash of color or a special touch to them.

But it was the way she was looking at him that alarmed Sherlock the most. When _his_ Molly looked at him, there was always…a _spark_ , an emotion that flared in her dark eyes, when she would catch sight of him. Sometimes it was happiness, sometimes it was curiosity, sometimes it was excitement, and sometimes there had been surprise or anger. But always there had been… _hope._

Now, as this new Molly looked at him, Sherlock saw no hope, no spark of anything. Just a deep sadness mixed with annoyance and resignation. And in her hands, she carried a small box filled with objects that he recognized from her office.

This Molly heaved a deep sigh and shook her head before looking away from him. "I'd _really_ hoped to avoid this…but you always need to have the last word, don't you?"

Her tone of voice matched the way that she had looked at him. Then she turned away and walked towards her bedroom, shutting the door behind her (not quite slamming it, but not doing it quietly either).

For a good few minutes, Sherlock could only stand there in shock. Just a minute ago, he'd thought that she had already left, that she was already gone. But now he saw that she wasn't…and yet…

 _That's not my Molly…_

"Don't call her that."

Sherlock turned around, Mary's voice surprising him, for frankly the sight of Molly had made her forget her presence (at least, her presence to _him_ ). Mary was looking at him with a serious and sad expression.

"She's not _your_ Molly, no matter how her hair or clothes look, and she never has been. She _could_ have been, practically from the beginning…"

Mary didn't finish her sentence, and she didn't need to. Sherlock knew the rest perfectly well as his heart began to pound again: _But you never took that chance_.

The blond woman rolled her eyes impatiently. "Are you just going to stand there like a rock? If you don't do something, Molly will not only leave, but leave hating you."

Sherlock suddenly felt very cold. The very idea of Molly not caring about him anymore, even _hating_ him, was terrifying. Perhaps as terrifying as the revelation about who Redbeard really was had been. His feet became unglued from the kitchen tiles and he walked around the kitchen counter towards the hallway that led to Molly's bedroom.

But the door opened and Molly came out before Sherlock got there. Again, she looked at him without any spark, without any positive emotion or feeling. But this time, a drop of impatience was apparent in her pursed lips and stiff posture.

And, in her left hand, she held the handle of a Samsonite suitcase.

When a person feels panicked and scared, knowing that they must say something but having absolutely no idea what to say, more often than not end up blurting out something would be considered stupid, offensive, or both.

In Sherlock's case, it was both.

"You…you've changed your hair."

From behind him, Sherlock heard Mary give a dismal groan and mutter, "Oh, for the love of Christ…"

In front of him, fury flooded Molly's expression for a moment before she said coldly, "That worked for you six years ago, but you honestly think that's going to work on me now?"

With a huff of disgust, Molly squeezed past him in the narrow hallway, bumping his shoulder not-too-gently with her own as she did so. Sherlock only just managed not to get his toes rolled over by the wheels of the Samsonite.

It took Sherlock a moment to work out just what Molly had meant; why had she thought that he meant to trick her with his words? Then a memory from six years ago flooded through his mind, taking him back to the cafeteria of St. Bart's Hospital…

* * *

" _So, you're working here tonight." She tried to disguise the pleasure in her voice, but it still shone through like a candle in the dark._

" _I need to examine some bodies. Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lucas."_

 _Molly looked down at the clipboard in her hands. "They're on my list…" When she looked back up at Sherlock, any other words died in her throat at the look he was giving her._

" _Could you wheel them out again for me?" He made sure to use his deepest, softest, and most persuasive tone of voice._

 _But still, she offered up the only resistance she could think of, though it was hard: "Well…the paperwork's already gone through." Her tone was dripping with apologies._

 _Plan B, then. His eyes swept over her entire appearance and finally settled on her head._

" _You've…changed your hair."_

" _What?" She had to laugh a little at this unexpected comment._

 _His tone of voice grew more confident now that he'd latched onto a target. "The style, it's usually parted in the middle."_

 _Clearly, his words were throwing her off-guard. "Yes, w-well –"_

" _It's good, it um…suits you better this way." He ended this decisive statement with a friendly smile._

 _Molly returned the smile, though she was clearly holding back a big grin. Sherlock knew then that she would grant him the access he needed. He maintained the friendly smile on his face until she turned around to move along the cafeteria line. Then he dropped the smile like a hot potato and impatiently looked at his watch, hoping that she wouldn't take too long…_

* * *

Sherlock came back to reality with a bad taste in his mouth and a bad feeling in his stomach. Revisiting that memory had been like being force-fed the gravy-drenched pork that had been in one of the serving dishes that day. He'd never liked pork that much, and now he knew that he never would.

Turning back around in the hallway, he saw Mary looking at him with crossed arms. Her expression was easy enough to read: _You're very lucky that I'm not physically here and that I don't have a gun right now._

Sherlock sighed, knowing that the only person in this scenario who was in the wrong was himself. With some trepidation, he walked down the hallway, past Mary, and into the sitting room. Molly was in there, picking up her landline phone and beginning to dial a number. "I have a car scheduled to pick me up in an hour, but now I'll have to cancel that and try to get one that can come right away."

" _NO!_ Molly, _please_ don't!" It took all of his strength not to walk over to Molly and grab the landline from her hands. Instead, he only managed to speak in the same desperate, pleading tone he had used when Molly had nearly hung up on that phone call.

Molly looked at him in a way that demanded: _Give me one good reason._ But at least she stopped dialing.

Mary now walked into the sitting room and stood beside Molly, like a soldier ready to defend her queen. That made sense to Sherlock: she and Molly had been close friends. Mary wouldn't have made Molly one of Rosie's godmothers if she hadn't been. Looking at Mary, Sherlock saw her bringing her hands down slowly, and he got the message.

He softened his tone of voice before speaking again. He didn't know what words were going to come out of his mouth, but since both Molly and Mary were watching him, he knew that he could only speak from the most honest part of himself – neither of them tolerated fibbing or bullshit from him.

"Molly…I won't stop you leaving. I promise you, I won't…though I'm sure my word doesn't mean much right now –"

"It doesn't."

There was that cold tone of voice from Molly again, along with an equally cold look. It made Sherlock wince; this just wasn't _natural_ for Molly, who was more compassionate and warm-hearted than anybody he had ever known.

"And you've no one to blame but yourself for that," said Mary, still standing beside Molly. But with her hand, she encouraged him to keep talking.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and bravely met Molly's cold gaze as he spoke again: "And I have no one to blame but myself for that." Mary nodded in his peripheral vision. "But…you deserve to know the truth about what happened."

"Ah, so that's it," said Molly, putting her landline back down and then folding her arms in a defensive posture. "You never reach out to me in any way unless you need me to do something for you: run a test, roll out a body, provide body parts, help you fake your death, etcetera. Now, you need a captive audience for you to explain all about your latest case, or would you prefer to call it an experiment?"

Now her tone and gaze were sharp, for both knew what she was referring to:

 _"Molly, this is for a case, it's…sort of an experiment."_

 _"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."_

Sherlock couldn't help but feel a bit hurt hearing that. "Molly…do you honestly think that I only called you yesterday as an experiment, and that I am only here to listen to myself talk about the results?"

Molly blinked, and a weary sadness replaced the cold and sharp look she had taken on. "After witnessing the lengths that you went to destroying yourself with that drug cocktail in order to solve a case and get John's forgiveness…" She gave a half-shrug, still looking so sad and tired. "I really can't put anything past you now. Especially when you have long viewed sentiment and emotion as beneath your interest."

Beside her, Mary looked at him, sadly shaking her head. Sherlock gulped and looked at his feet; he couldn't deny that he felt ashamed in that moment.

Sherlock remembered how stricken Molly had been by the state he'd been in on that ambulance ride. He had seen her expression grow grimmer, angrier, and more frightened as she examined and tested him. Even after it was all over and everything had been explained to her about the Culverton Smith case and Mary's last request to Sherlock, Molly's usual spark and smile hadn't been as bright when they'd all gone out for birthday cake. She had still addressed him with a sad and wary look, even as she smiled and wished him a happy birthday. It also didn't help that this hadn't been the first time she had witnessed him going to extremes and/or drugs as a means to an end; Moriarty and Magnussen were proof enough of that.

"Sherlock…" He heard Mary's voice, gentle this time. "She needs to know…"

This made Sherlock lift his head and look at Molly again. Mary gave him an encouraging nod, still standing beside the pathologist.

"Molly…please let me tell you everything. You deserve to know everything behind that phone call. You know, as a doctor, that a person can only properly heal from a wound after it's been properly treated. I've wounded you, Molly, and I know that. Please…even if you still hate me after you know everything, at least you'll hate me for reasons that are true."

Now Molly looked down at her own feet for a minute, and then finally gave a shaky sigh when she looked up at him again. "I don't hate you, Sherlock. It takes too much energy to _hate_ anything, and as far as I'm concerned, energy used that way is energy wasted. And I've spent much too long feeling too much for you…without getting much of anything in return."

She sighed again and rubbed a hand over her face. Mary, standing beside her in Sherlock's eyes but completely invisible to Molly, looked at her with sad compassion and put a hand on her back (even though Molly couldn't feel it).

"But…you're right about healing, Sherlock," said Molly. "So, if you think you can tell me everything before I leave, go ahead. I'll listen…if only because I'm too tired to argue now."

With that, Molly sat down on her sofa, grabbed a throw pillow, held it to her chest, and gestured for him to sit in an armchair. Her expression was blank and expectant. Mary, after sitting down beside Molly on the sofa, silently encouraged him to sit down with a nod, a look of faith and reassurance on her face.

Gulping, Sherlock finally took off his coat and scarf (he'd only just realized that he hadn't taken them off yet, draped them over the back of the armchair, and took his seat.

There was a lot he had to tell her in less than an hour, but it was either tell her everything or lose her. And the latter, for Sherlock, was _not_ an option.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Piece of advice: See 'Beauty and the Beast,' and listen to the lovely Dan Stevens sing this song. It made me cry._

 _Also, the image I have of Molly's new hair is of Loo's hair when she and Andrew Scott were in Paris doing Sherlock interviews; look it up on YouTube._


	4. Chapter 4

_**I rage against the trials of love…**_

 _ **I curse the fading of the light…**_

 _ **Though she's already flown**_

 _ **So far beyond my reach,**_

 _ **She's never out of sight…**_

* * *

Thankfully, for Sherlock, he was able to tell Molly the whole story in less than an hour. He knew that not by looking at a clock, but by the fact that Molly stayed seated on her sofa, holding that throw-pillow to her chest, while he talked.

For the most part, her gaze remained steadily on him as he told the story, never interrupting him (she never had to since he didn't hold anything back). Occasionally, he had to force himself to go slower (he had a tendency to talk quite quickly) when Mary – still sitting beside Molly on the sofa – silently prompted him to.

When he was finished, Molly turned her gaze to the pillow she still held to her chest. She didn't say anything for what felt like an eternity, though Sherlock knew it could only have been a few minutes. He felt exhausted but relieved, lighter even, now that he had told it all. For the first time, he understood how talking about something could be therapeutic. No wonder John had faith in the process…perhaps now he did, too. Mary, still seated beside Molly on the sofa, gave him a little nod, letting him know that he'd done the best he could do by telling her everything.

Eventually, the silence was broken when Molly absently reached up to brush a tear off her cheek. Looking at it on her fingers, she gave a hollow chuckle.

"What was that for?" Sherlock snapped. The last thing that he had expected Molly to do after telling the whole story was chuckle.

Molly kept her gaze on the tear resting on her fingers and replied without apology: "Nothing, just…I don't know whether to be happy or sad at this reaction. I thought I'd cried every tear my body held last night."

Any indignation Sherlock had felt at her unexpected reaction disappeared at this equally unexpected reply. Now he just felt sick at the thought of Molly crying.

"This probably explains why she hasn't screamed, cried or hit you at all," said Mary softly, leaning to the side a bit so that he could see her clearly. "Now just sit still and quiet; you've told her everything that happened. Now it's her turn to speak. Just be patient and she will."

Sherlock made an imperceptible nod in her direction, and willed himself to do just that. And eventually, Molly _did_ speak, in a soft and sorrowful voice.

"It's horrible, Sherlock…the whole story and situation…it must be true, not even you could make up something like _that_ …" Her eyes suddenly got wide with panicked realization. "Oh, God…there are cameras in here…how long as she been watching me?!"

"I can't be sure, Molly," said Sherlock, in the calmest voice that he could. "She must have placed the cameras in your flat while you were at work sometime between that day in the ambulance and when she revealed her true identity to John."

"So, a month at most…" Molly murmured, looking sick and curling herself around the pillow she still held to her chest. "More than enough time to know my schedule, when I would be home and when I would be working…" Molly shot him a glare. "When would be the best time to get what she wanted from me. _That_ certainly sounds familiar."

Sherlock couldn't help but shrink from her justified glare, and he felt ashamed once again. Both of them knew that, ever since Sherlock decided to work with no other pathologist, he had memorized not only her work schedule but every other schedule that she had, including her menstrual one. All the better to know when she would be the most willing to do what he needed…

"How do I spell your name again?" asked Mary sarcastically. "Oh, yes, it's eight letters long: A-R-S-E-H-O-L-E. Have I got that right?" She shot him a look as nasty as Molly's glare was cold.

Knowing that he had a _big_ hole to climb out of, Sherlock said to Molly: "I will make sure that any surveillance that was placed in your flat is removed and destroyed before the day is out, Molly. I'll call Lestrade and have him send over his best forensic and technical officers."

Molly only kept glaring at him for a moment, and then she gave him a short nod. "The afternoon would be best," she said.

Nodding – and quite relieved that Sherlock was able to _do_ something, able to correct at least one wrong that had been done to Molly – Sherlock pulled out his phone and called Lestrade. He made the request in a tone that indicated 'no' was _not_ a correct answer. Thankfully, Greg didn't even try to, and said that he would personally oversee the de-bugging of Molly's flat to ensure all was left as it should be.

After relaying this to Molly once the call was over, she seemed to relax a bit. More silence followed for a few minutes, and it was Molly who eventually broke it:

"How bad off is 221B? And Mrs. Hudson's flat?"

Glad to have a question that he could easily answer, Sherlock replied: "Thankfully, the bomb was quite a small one. Though it would have severely injured or killed us had we remained in the sitting room, the blast wasn't strong enough to cause serious damage beyond my flat. Mrs. Hudson's flat is quite intact, just a few pictures and knick-knacks that fell from the force of the explosion upstairs. As for 221B…as I said, it's still there, but nearly everything in it was either damaged or destroyed. It will take some time to get it how it was before."

"That's a shame…" said Molly absently, her mind already turning to her next – and far more difficult – question: "What happens to your sister now?"

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his curls. "She'll go back to Sherrinford, once it's secure again. In the meantime, I know that she'll be placed in a maximum-security cell with full restraints and strict order to everyone not to engage with her. But I doubt that last order is necessary…she's been practically catatonic since she surrendered. Like her mind has broken…I may have brought her plane in to land but it was a harsh water landing that's rendered the plane severely damaged if not completely…Either way, she'll never be free again…"

His tone of voice was sad and defeated, speaking as much to himself as he was to Molly. In response to this, Molly nodded grimly, now looking at the wall opposite her. "That's as close to fair as it can be," she said quietly, more to herself than to Sherlock.

The detective's first reaction was shock, and not a pleasant kind, either. "What?" he breathed.

Molly finally looked at him, and there was no trace of tears in her eyes now. There wasn't a trace of an apology, either.

"However sick she may be, whatever unfair decisions have been made about her life, she murdered at least six people in cold blood, without hesitation or remorse, and would have killed more if you hadn't managed to get through to her. As you so candidly pointed out that day in the ambulance, Sherlock, I work with murder victims nearly every day. And nearly every day, I have to guide families through identifications, all of them terrible and heartbreaking. When someone is murdered, it's those who loved them – both the murdered and the murderer – that are committed to a life sentence of grief that they don't deserve and can't escape. Even when justice is served to the fullest it can be served – in this case, Euros losing her freedom for the rest of her life – nothing is fair because nothing can undue those actions or bring those people back. As I said, it's as close to fair as it can be."

Though her tone grew softer near the end, the steely backbone of her tone and gaze did not waver. Once again, Sherlock was reminded of just how strong Molly, her belief system and moral compass were. Though there was no more generous or giving soul in his life, Molly also wouldn't just stand by and stay silent if something wasn't right. As John had so eloquently put it, Molly saw through his bullshit and didn't hesitate to call him out when he crossed a line. That principle applied to the world, as well, as Molly was demonstrating now.

So, of course Sherlock couldn't fault Molly for her view of the situation; in fact, his regard for her grew even more. He knew that, if Euros hadn't been his sister, his opinion about the situation might not be as just as Molly's was.

After a pause, Molly continued, concern laced in her tone. "How are John and Mycroft? And what about your parents?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands beneath his chin. "John is strong, and no soldier could have been better in that situation yesterday. He has his daughter, and Mary's memory, to make proud, and I've no doubt that he will."

Mary's eyes filled with tears before she shut them, a beatific smile on her face as she breathed a sigh of relief. Molly merely nodded, not at all surprised to hear this.

"Mycroft…well, he's not as strong as he believed he was. He knows that, though he had the best intentions, his actions have backfired. And, though he may object initially, our parents will learn the truth and everything that's happened. So much of this horrible situation happened because of secrets and lies."

Molly nodded in agreement. "You're right. Nothing is ever settled until it is settled right, and only the truth can do that." Sighing again, she put the sofa cushion behind her back and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Well, Sherlock…between your family and your flat, you'll certainly have your work cut out for you while I'm gone."

Her unexpected last words were like a punch to Sherlock's gut. He sat up abruptly, looking at her with wide eyes. "You mean…you still mean to go?"

Molly looked at him, surprised by his words. Her gaze turned firm when she spoke, though. "Yes, I do, Sherlock. No explanation that you could have given me was going to change that fact."

"B-but…you know what happened now! You know that the phone call wasn't just an experiment or a cruel joke at your expense. You know now that I didn't have a choice, that I thought you were going to die unless you said…those words."

"And I believe you." Molly ran her fingers through her new bob and smoothed it out before she spoke again. "You were right about me knowing the truth before I left, Sherlock. It _is_ better to know the truth rather than assume the worst…and I can't deny that I did…but I still have to leave."

"But _why_?" Sherlock knew that he sounded like a whining child, but he didn't care in his desperation.

Molly shut her eyes, visibly frustrated that she now had to explain herself to the man that she could hide nothing from anymore. Rubbing her face with her hands again, she said softly into her palms: "When Mary died…you weren't the only one who lost a close friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock, feeling uncomfortably cold again, looked at the specter sitting beside Molly on the sofa. Mary hung her head in sadness and whispered, "Oh, sweetheart…"

"I…" Sherlock began, almost afraid of what effect his words (whatever they would be) would have. "I know, Molly…" God, it sounded pathetic to his ears.

Suddenly, Molly threw aside the throw pillow and got up from the sofa. She slowly paced around her sitting room and refused to meet Sherlock's eye as she spoke in a very sad voice:

"Just after Mary's funeral, I got a call from Mycroft to come and see him about Mary's will…and what was left to me. Apparently, she only trusted him with that since she didn't want to tell anybody else about her past. It was all in a thick envelope…took me two bottles of wine and a nasty hangover the next morning to work up enough courage to open it…There wasn't too much in there, but what _was_ in there held a lot of importance, to both her and me. First, there were three video discs, with instructions about who to and when to mail them."

Sherlock couldn't help but let out a strangled gasp. Molly stopped and looked at him for a moment before continuing.

"Yes. I'm the one who mailed that disc to you. I mailed the second one just now to John, in between getting my hair cut and picking up some stuff from my office. He should get it tomorrow, so expect a call from him. The third…" Molly paused, and took a moment to compose herself. "The third is for Rosie…when she's old enough to…I'll tell John about it when I come back, and that'll be something for him to decide in the future."

Sherlock nodded numbly, not at all surprised that Mary created separate discs for the two people she had loved most in her life. Meanwhile, the Mary on the sofa was looking at Molly with tears in her eyes. "I knew I could trust you, Molly. There is no one I've ever known besides John that I could trust so completely."

And Sherlock knew that she wasn't only speaking for herself.

"Of course, I'm not," Mary snapped at him. "This is _your_ mind that's creating me, so anything I say will ultimately come from _you_."

Not needing to be reminded of the obvious, Sherlock turned back to Molly (who had resumed her slow pacing) and softly asked, "What else did Mary leave you?"

Molly's eyes followed her feet as she answered. "A long letter for me. She knew that I would have preferred a letter to a video disc." She wiped her eyes again. "She warned me of what she would ask you to do in order to save John from himself…and apologized for both that and for the time she shot you…I don't think she ever really forgave herself for that…"

Sherlock caught Mary's eye and, remembering the real Mary's last words to him in that aquarium, knew that Molly spoke the truth.

For a moment, Molly's face scrunched up in pure frustration before she completely turned her back on Sherlock. "Even today, I'm still angry at her for both that bullet and the crap you shot into your systems…two times she nearly got you killed…but I have to forgive her…because each time she was doing it to save the man she loved…I can relate to that…"

"She certainly can," said Mary, more to herself as she looked at Molly. Sherlock knew exactly to what Mary was referring; what Molly had done for him in helping him fake his death certainly fell into the category of "Crazy Things You Do to Save Those You Love the Most," right beside Mary's actions.

Molly turned back around and faced Sherlock, her standing and him seated. It was one of the few times in their entire history where she was the one looking down on him – usually it was the other way around.

"Her letter contained something else, Sherlock. You see, she knew better than anybody how I felt about you. She had a gift that way, of seeing through to the core of something. In her letter, after telling me how much she admired and respected what I did for you and how I was able to deal with you, Mary reminded me that I am not a selfless angel but a human being with her own needs…That I couldn't go on forever shoving aside my needs and dreams because it seemed easier for everybody else, especially you…"

Sherlock's uncomfortably cold feeling rose to freezing level.

"That's a very good point," said Mary. Sherlock refused to look at her since Molly was looking at him and would notice.

Molly continued, her voice cold and her eyes sad: "The last items in that envelope were a gift for me to use when, as she put it, 'Sherlock finally goes too far and your limits are finally reached.' She knew that the day would come, and yesterday it did. Those items she left me were…certain things that will help me not only leave, but _disappear_."

And just like that, Sherlock understood what was going on: Mary had given Molly the means to run away so that Sherlock would not be able to follow her. He knew that Mary could, quite easily. After all, if he hadn't placed a tracer in Mary's mobile, he'd _never_ have been able to find her in Morocco. And even if he had placed a tracer in Molly's mobile, he knew that Molly wasn't going to be taking hers along: it lay broken on her kitchen counter.

Now, like Mary had done before her, Molly was going to defeat her own demon. But she wasn't going to do it by rushing towards it; she'd already been doing that for a long time. No, now she was doing the only thing left to her: get as far away from it as possible.

Because that demon…was _him._


	5. Chapter 5

_**Now I know she'll never leave me,**_

 _ **Even as she fades from view.**_

 _ **She will still inspire me,**_

 _ **Be a part of everything I do…**_

* * *

The dreadful, heavy silence that had descended upon Molly's flat was broken by the sound of her landline ringing. Molly walked to it and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" She listened for a moment, her expression a poker face, and then said, "Thank you. I'll be ready." Then she hung up the phone.

After a tense moment of silence, Molly walked back towards Sherlock, once again taking the position of standing over him. He just sat there in the armchair, for once at a complete loss for words, even as the razor-sharp terror of watching Molly leave him still pressed against his chest like a deadly weapon.

"My car will be here in fifteen minutes," Molly said calmly. "That's more than enough time to complete my 'healing process,' as you put it. You still have one more truth to tell me."

Sherlock hadn't been expecting that, and he desperately racked his mind for anything that he may have left out of his telling of all that had happened since Mary's death. But he couldn't think of anything that he had left out, even by accident. He really hadn't held back in telling Molly what had happened, even the part about him smashing her coffin to pieces in reaction to finding out how Euros had tricked him. What could she possibly believe he wasn't telling her?

And then, Molly's answer did what Molly so often managed to do where so many other failed: it shocked him.

"Tell me that you don't love me."

Actually, 'shocked' was a bit of an understatement right now. If Molly had just pulled a gun out of her dress pocket and shot him in the groin, he doubted he would be as completely gob-smacked as he was now.

"Woah, now don't you go taking a leaf out of my book and start giving her ideas!" warned Mary, still seated on the sofa.

Sherlock blinked _hard_ a few times, hoping to make Mary go away (for quite frankly, she wasn't helping him right now). But Molly, of course, couldn't hear Mary. Seeing that Sherlock wasn't replying, the pathologist sighed impatiently and then continued in a strong, but quieter, voice:

"We both know that you didn't mean it, Sherlock. I knew that you wouldn't mean it when I asked you to say it. But if I was going to finally say those words, out loud, to you…I needed to be able to pretend that what I felt wasn't unrequited, just long enough for me to get those words out. But I'm done with false hope; it only hurt me in the end. What I need now, no matter how much I wish it were different, is the truth. So please…" With a resigned look on her face but the echo of great heartbreak in her eyes, she motioned with her hand for him to say the words she was asking him to say.

Sherlock opened his mouth – nothing came out. He tried again – still nothing. She'd made it clear what she wanted him to say, and it was not a difficult request…was it? The words were simple enough…when had he ever had trouble with words?

Not caring anymore how it would look, Sherlock looked at the Mary his mind was projecting into the scenario. The expression on her face held the only true answer he had: a perfect mixture of sadness and uncertainty.

Looking back at Molly, Sherlock was finally only able to get two words out, barely more than two breaths: "I…can't."

Molly's reaction was to turn her back on Sherlock, her arms coming up to hug herself tightly. But Sherlock caught a glimpse of the anger and hurt flooding her face just before she did.

Leaping to his feet but not approaching her, Sherlock began to plead for his life:

"No, Molly, it's not like that! I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have, truly I don't. But…I can't say that because I…I truly don't know if it's true or not. I'm not sure of anything anymore…"

He felt his throat becoming tighter and his eyes beginning to itch and burn with moisture, but he pushed through both.

"For years, I thought I had only an older brother. That I had a dog for a best friend who was put down. That sentiment and emotion were nothing more than inconvenient weaknesses to be pushed away permanently. Worst of all…that no matter what I did, what I said, what happened…you would always forgive me and be there whenever I needed you."

Molly didn't move to turn around or look at him. But she stayed where she was, at least. Mary, sitting on the edge of her seat on the sofa, looked at Molly with the same desperation as Sherlock. "Please hear him out, love," she said. "He's really trying."

Sherlock continued in a softer voice that was no less desperate to the back of her head. "Molly…if you or anybody asked me right now whether or not I'm in love with you…I wouldn't be able to give a definitive answer. I'm _sorry_. It's all so _raw_ right now…my mind and heart have been vivisected these past forty-eight hours. But one of the few things that I _can_ be sure about is that I care for you much more than you believe that I do. You are one of the very, very few people in my life that I can absolutely trust, that counts to me and that I can count on…But I can see now that…you can't say the same about me…"

And Lord, that made him feel _sick._ "You've no one to blame but yourself for that," said Mary, with all of the disappointment he knew that everybody felt in this situation.

He took a deep breath. Each word was getting harder and harder to say, because they consisted of truth that he had yet to voice aloud until now.

"I've said that I won't stop you leaving, and I will keep my word about that. I see now that trying to keep you here would mean hurting you even more than I already have. You may not believe me, Molly, but…the last thing I would…want is for you to…regret knowing me…"

He heard Molly take a deep and shuddering breath, the kind one takes when they're doing everything in their power to keep from crying. When she spoke again, her voice was so soft that Sherlock had to strain to hear. "I think I started doing that yesterday, Sherlock…I don't know if that's still true, but…I know that I still hate myself..."

Nothing that Molly had said or done since he'd seen her today hurt his heart as much as her last words did. He looked at Mary, who leapt up from the sofa looking every bit as horrified as he felt now. Her expression told him to do something _now_ ; he didn't need to see that to know that.

"Molly, no," he said – no, _pleaded._ He couldn't help but take a step closer to her now, making sure not to get too close. " _Please,_ no, Molly! Tell me what I can do, there _has_ to be something I can do. Please, Molly, what can I do?"

Mary folded her hands and pressed them to her mouth, looking at Molly in terrified anticipation, just like Sherlock. For a minute, Molly didn't move; she still stood with her back to Sherlock and as tense as a piano wire. Then, she turned about ninety degrees clockwise, so Sherlock could at least see her profile now. Her face was pinched in deep and conflicted thought (he knew that look well enough from personal experience), and Sherlock barely breathed as he waited for her to respond.

"Just be glad that she's thinking it over," Mary tried to reassure. "At least she didn't say that there's nothing you can do…then again, she still may once she's thought it over…"

 _Not. Helping._ Sherlock thought this as loudly as he could.

Finally, Molly spoke softly, more to herself than to Sherlock, with her eyes closed. "I'm going to regret this…"

"You won't," Sherlock immediately replied in eagerness to prove himself and relief that she'd thought of something that he could do for her. He didn't even care what it was that she would propose!

Molly turned another ninety degrees so that she ended up facing Sherlock. When she looked at him, her expression was both steely and wary. "You said that Baker Street won't be all fixed for at least a few weeks?"

Sherlock nodded, not daring to hope that Molly was suggesting what he dearly hoped she was suggesting.

She took a deep breath that ended in a sigh. "I'm contemplating letting you stay here, but there would be _critical_ conditions."

"Name them," Sherlock immediately replied, his heart lifting at this chance to prove himself.

"Aww," Mary chuckled. "Shall I compare you to a little boy or a little puppy?"

It was a testament to Sherlock's desperation that he didn't give a damn what Mary would choose and completely ignored her taunt.

"It goes without saying to just about anybody else, but I'll spell it out for you: this flat had better be spotless when I come back, let alone still habitable for a human being to live in. You also will not give my neighbors any disturbances or grievances with things such as playing your violin at all hours or conducting experiments in here that would create loud noises or nauseous smells. In other words, if I let you stay here, you will behave like a good, respectful and responsible adult and tenant."

"Wow, doesn't she sound just like your mother when she's cross!" exclaimed Mary with great admiration and humor.

Again, Sherlock ignored her, his sole focus being Molly. He really couldn't blame her for spelling that condition out for him, considering his own history of treatment with his own flat. He nodded and said, "I understand." He meant it, too.

Molly seemed to sense that, even if she was wary about fully trusting it. She took a small step towards him, her gaze becoming intent on him. Sherlock knew that, whatever she would request from him next, _this_ was of the most paramount importance.

"I need you to promise me something, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, already willing to jump off the St. Bart's roof if that was what she wanted him to do. "History doesn't need to repeat itself, love," muttered Mary.

"What is it, Molly?" asked Sherlock softly.

Molly's gaze suddenly opened, her large brown eyes getting brighter, allowing herself to be just a bit vulnerable in front of him. Such was the importance of her request.

"Sherlock…I'm in love with you. And I want to be loved in return, and someday have a family of my own. That is how I feel, and that is what I want. Those two facts won't change when I come back, but hopefully I will be stronger and better when I do. You say that you honestly don't know what you feel for me and what you want from me right now; just that there is something there. By the time I come back, I need you to be clear in your mind and heart, be honest with yourself and with me, about what you feel for me and what you want from me. Can you do that?"

The detective knew that what Molly was requesting wasn't in any way unreasonable. If anything, it was what she had deserved from the very beginning that he'd been unwilling to even try to figure out. Just as he was committed to help his family's situation with the truth, he knew that he would do that to help this situation with Molly. "I will do my best, Molly," he replied sincerely.

Slowly, Molly nodded, accepting his answer. "I need the truth, Sherlock. No matter what it is. So, I'll tell you another truth: if it turns out whatever you feel for me, whatever you want from me, isn't the same as what I feel and want from you…then you can't be in my life anymore. If it turns out that what we feel and want from each other isn't the same, then I need to be able to move on and find what I want. If you care about me at all – which is the only thing you can say for sure right now – then you'll do this for me both while I'm away and when I come back."

All Sherlock could do in response was nod, hold her gaze, and hope that Molly saw him now as she had always seen him: clearly.

Then, a knocking on Molly's door broke the intense moment between them, causing both to jump a bit. Molly immediately composed herself, walked to the front door, and opened it. A middle-aged man with a kind face stood at the door, a driver's cap in his hand. "Hallo, ma'am. You ordered a car to take you to –"

"Yes, thank you," Molly interrupted, but with a smile. "You're right on time."

"Any baggage I can take out for you?"

Molly pointed to the Samsonite suitcase next to her landline. "Just this, thank you. I'll be out in a minute."

"Very good, ma'am," said the driver. He nodded at Sherlock after taking the suitcase. Once he had left, Molly picked up her purse and slung the strap over her left shoulder. Looking at Sherlock, having said everything that she needed to say, Molly could now only say, "Well…you know where the spare key is. I'd prefer you use that rather than pick my locks. Please don't make me regret this…Good-bye."

Molly walked to her front door and opened it.

"Molly?" Sherlock called her name, one last plea and his most desperate one. At first, he didn't know what he wanted to say. He only knew that he didn't want the last words spoken between them to be 'good-bye.'

Molly stopped and turned her head to look at him, clearly saying ' _what?_ ' with her eyes.

His own eyes burning, it finally hit Sherlock that nothing would ever be the same with Molly again. She had always been a rock for him, a rock that he wasn't even aware of most of the time, but one that he was losing because he hadn't let himself be the same for her. Truly realizing this now, Sherlock could only ask one final question:

"Can you ever forgive me?"

The weary exasperation on Molly's face melted into a sad understanding. She slowly walked to him, holding his gaze, and Sherlock hardly dared to breathe. As she saw him, _really_ saw him, Sherlock caught a glimpse of _his_ Molly in those large brown eyes. Then, Molly lifted her hand and lightly touched his cheek. Sherlock didn't realize that he'd shed a tear until she brushed it away. Finally, Molly replied with one word:

"Someday."

With that, her dark eyes became shuttered again. Her hand dropped, she turned walked through her front door and shut it behind her.

Sherlock stood there in the middle of her sitting room, for how long he didn't know. Eventually, he raised his hand and touched the spot on his cheek where the tear had fallen and her fingers had brushed it away. The spot burned, and blood was rushing in his ears. He finally looked at Mary again, who gave him a sad smile as she shook her head.

"You don't need me to say what you just figured out, do you?"

"No…" Sherlock breathed, for just like that, everything had become clear to him – how he felt and what he wanted.

In the next moment, he was bolting for the front door and throwing it open. "Molly!" he called out as he went up the steps to the sidewalk.

But there was no car there. No driver. No Molly.

It was too late. They were gone.

 _She was gone_.

"She's not gone forever, Sherlock." Mary had followed him outside, and put herself in his line of sight. "You hear me, Sherlock? She's not gone forever. Come back inside before you attract attention, ok?"

Like a zombie, Sherlock obeyed her. Before going back inside, Sherlock bent down and took the spare key from under her cheery welcome mat. After shutting the door behind him, he slipped the key into the pocket of his coat, which was still hung up with his scarf on the coat rack. He decided to stay here for a while, and be here when Lestrade came by with his tech team.

When he re-entered the sitting room, his eyes found the kitchen, and the two items on the kitchen counter: a broken mobile and a pink rose. The fact that Molly had never noticed its presence could only mean that she had both consciously and sub-consciously been avoiding her kitchen like a crime scene. Sherlock's heart saddened even more.

He walked to the kitchen counter, and made to pick up both items, but paused. That mobile wouldn't do him any good, and not only because it was broken. It was a reminder of why Molly had to go, and Sherlock didn't need an extra reminder of that. So, he only picked up the rose and walked back into the sitting room.

Sitting on the sofa – where Molly had been sitting – Sherlock stared at the rose. It was nearly fully bloomed, and barely a flaw could be seen on it. His fingers were aware of the thorns on the stem and avoided them. As he looked at the rose, a memory of Molly flooded his mind from years ago…

… _He'd been sitting alone in Baker Street, having just dismissed a potential client for not having an interesting enough case. Suddenly, he heard the sound of light footsteps hurrying up the steps to his flat. In the next moment, Molly appeared in the open front door, wearing her cherry jumper and without a purse. He hoped that this meant she had discovered something on her shift, either with a cadaver or in the lab, that she thought was intriguing enough to grab his attention. And he was right. A moment later, the both of them were rushing with absolute excitement out of 221B and back to St. Bart's…_

Again, Sherlock's eyes burned as he realized that he may never experience pure moments like that with Molly again. He didn't have enough of them in his memory…he hadn't allowed himself to have nearly enough…

Without really making the conscious decision to do so, Sherlock went through in his mind various instances when he had denied her, and himself, the chance he so desperately wanted now. With each new memory, Sherlock plucked a petal from the rose and let it flutter to the carpet. Memory after memory, petal after petal…

The only thing that stopped him was the sound of his mobile ringing from his coat pocket.

"I'll bet that's my hubby," said Mary, sitting beside him on the couch. "I'm sure he's worried about you after you rushed out like that."

With that, Sherlock was pulled out of that headspace of hopelessness. His situation was not hopeless, he told himself as he set the rose down on the coffee table and got up from the sofa. As he walked to his coat, he reminded himself that these last forty-eight hours had given him the chance to prove himself a good man in the future: to his family, to his friends, and to Molly.

He didn't know if he would succeed, but he would try. And he would start by answering John's concerned phone call.

As he answered the call, Mary gave him a small, proud smile and vanished with a reassuring wave.

The rose on the coffee table had just one pink petal left.

* * *

 _ **Wasting in my lonely tower,**_

 _ **Waiting by an open door,**_

 _ **I'll fool myself she'll walk right in...**_

 _ **And as the long, long nights begin...**_

 _ **I'll think of all that might have been,**_

 _ **Waiting here for evermore…**_

* * *

 **A/N:** _So that's the end of this story - glad I managed to get that image of Molly in the ending TFP scene in there. I'm sorry that the updates took a long time; I spent a lot of time trying to get it just right. I wanted it to end on a sad but hopeful note; after all, Beauty and the Beast doesn't end with "Evermore," does it?_

 _Again, the song itself belongs to Disney, Alan Menken and Tim Rice. Listen to either the Dan Stevens recording or the Josh Groban cover; both are brilliant. And someday, if I get enough reviews for this little story, I just may write a follow-up that resembles the end of this beautiful fairy tale._


End file.
